Back when I was a young lad, in Portsmouth, I was taught the ten commandments by the local vicar. Some of them seemed to make sense – why should I have coveted the filthy hovel that belonged to the neighbour and his hag of a wife?

But number eight? I never liked the eighth commandment. “Thou shalt not steal.” Always seemed a bit … restrictive, really, didn’t take into account circumstances. I nicked stuff as a lad, course I did; we all did. Pennies and bits of bread and the like. Didn’t know then I’d make stealing my profession, that I’d search the seas looking for rich folk to steal from, but even as a boy it was never a commandment I planned on obeying.

I thought I’d forgotten about the commandments. Religion ain’t really a part of piracy, and the vicar’s teachings were only useful ‘cos he taught me to read and write (oh yes, I can read – surprised, ain’t you? Useful old skill). Only they brought me a reverend last night, in case I fancied repenting before they hang me later on, and he ran through my sins. Took a while, nearly sent me to sleep with his rabbiting on.

And you know what the odd thing was? I’d remembered that “thou shalt not kill” was a commandment, and I’ve done me best to follow it. Mostly. But I’d completely forgotten about “thou shalt not steal”. S’pose it’s just become so much part of me life that not stealing … well, let’s just say I still don’t like the eighth commandment. If I escape from these gallows that they’re setting up outside, I don’t plan on following it.

Actually, I don’t plan on following any of them. Pirate, remember?

© Joanne Harris 2004